


The Stars in Your Eyes

by DenseHumboldt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Decisions, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenseHumboldt/pseuds/DenseHumboldt
Summary: Mid-1980s Banbury England. Newly injured Gordon Ramsay needs a flatmate and an unusual medical student answers
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Gordon Ramsay
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This borders on RPF which I don't really condone, but I hope the joke is clear by the very silly nature of this AU. I will never refer to Gordon Ramsay by his full name and events from his life are out of order and wild approximations.
> 
> This is meant as send off of the temperamental chef character which I don't believe is the full picture of the man
> 
> Also this is my bff's fault
> 
> And this one is real short, further chapters will be longer

The alley smelt like shit. Not literal shit, but the specific smell of rot and slop that had oozed its way out of punctured bin liners. Or been tipped by some tramp looking for bottles behind the bar. The bin liners had their own smell, plastic and sweaty, even when they were new.

It was the smell exclusive to the back lanes behind restaurants. It made Gord grateful for the cheap cigarettes he smoked. The acrid burning crept up his nostrils and he liked to picture it cauterizing the tissues against ever smelling back alley or garlic ever again.

He was leaning against the wall next to the door that led back into the Ivory Palace. He had snagged the pot washing gig from one of his footie mates. A consolation prize for the on-pitch collision that had torn the ligament in Gord's knee but left Jun relatively unscathed.

Goodbye Football Club stardom, hello burnt curry pan.

The door was propped open by a newky brown box folded over itself and jammed at the latch. Gord could hear the crackling radio playing Dez's music and the hammering of metal on the counters. Anjali's voice carried over it all. When she spoke softly, Gord could picture her as one of the starlets on the faded Bollywood posters in the loo. Eyes full of secrets and a demure tilt of the head. When she was giving rapid fire orders in half English half Hindi it reminded him of his coach jogging along the sidelines, shouting at them.

The light seeping through the crack in the door was a yellow slice, it drew all the darkness to it. The beam made a line on the opposite brick wall. It made seeing anything but the light almost impossible, his vision speckled in the darkness when he looked away.

Gord considered lighting another cigarette as he heard the crash of plates hitting the counter. He was sick of washing traffic cone orange potato mash off the lips of chipped plates. The water stained the dry cuticles of his thumbs tumeric yellow until he could shower it away.

Gord reached into his pocket to pull out the packet of cigarettes but paused as a chill went up his spine. He felt he was being watched. He looked up and down the alley but he couldn't see anyone. 

Probably just tired, he thought, it was nearing ten at night. If he wanted to get out before midnight he had to go back in.

The flat would be empty. Neville had packed up and left that morning. Gord needed a new flatmate if he was going to make rent that month. He had toyed with the idea of asking Anjali, if only to cut her off mid-torrent and make her blush. She was too fun to toy with sometimes.

Her father would skin him alive. The joke probably wasn't worth it.

He tucked the packet back into his pocket and went back inside. The kitchen was slowing down. It was Tuesday, no late night drunks would stumble in. 

Gord started spraying down the plates and pots. The steam rising up made the sweat wick down his back and under his arms. It felt like fingers in his hair after being in the cold October air.

The phone rang. It clanged like someone had banged the handset on the metal racking one too many times. Knowing the owner's temper, it could have been. Anjali groaned as she leaned over the counter to grab it off the wall.

"Ivory Palace," she said sweetly, with her thumb and finger pinching the bridge of her nose. She paused and looked up at Gord. A lightening bolt of guilt struck him as he remembered he had pinned the Ivory Palace's number up in the football club's locker room after Neville had cleared out.

The flat didn't have a phone, Gord's best chance was to give the Ivory Palace number.

"King George," Anjali hissed with her hand covering the receiver. "Why are yobs calling here looking for you?"

"Sorry," Gord grunted as he wiped his wet hands on his front. "I need a new flatmate."

Anjali stared daggers at him as he took the phone and hunched his shoulder to cradle it against his ear. He looked about for a pencil and a slip of paper.

"You have the flat?" A smooth voice crept into his ear. Gord wondered how the caller knew Anjali had given him the phone when he hadn't said anything yet. He was relieved it was a bloke. Girls could get messy.

"Yeah, I do. It's on-"

"Your ad had the address."

"Yeah, yeah it did."

"Can we meet?" The voice lilted up and Gord couldn't place the accent or the age. His eyes flickered to the clock. It was late.

"Tonight?"

There was an amused sound. "No, no it is too late for making acquaintances. It would set a bad precedent. I will come to the restaurant tomorrow. We can talk."

"How did you-"

"The woman answered 'Ivory Palace'. The name for a restaurant or a brothel. Did I guess wrong?"

Heat crept up Gord's neck as he laughed awkwardly at the joke. He often felt like a goon, but this voice was making him feel like an imbecile.

"No, yeah," Gord stuttered. "Tomorrow."

The receiver clicked and Gord stood with it pressing against his ear until the distant whinging dial tone broke through his stupor. Anjali waved her hand in front of his face.

"Who was that?" She asked her gold and red rings catching the light. They matched the small stud in her nose. Gord blinked and hung up the phone.

"I don't know."


	2. Chapter 2

Gord spent the night thinking about the voice on the other end of the phone. He couldn't picture what he would look like when Gord saw him tomorrow. The men around Banbury didn't talk like that, in soft lulling syllables.

It didn't help that there wasn't much left in the flat, Neville had been the well off one. He had the loveseat and the coffee table, both pulled from his gran's when she died. Gord only had a mattress on the floor and the cutlery in the drawer. Some of it, at least, Gord hadn't checked when he got home. Maybe he should have.

Instead, he had been wandering around the flat, a bottle of beer hanging precariously from his fingers. He wondered if he should clean up. After all, this bloke would want to see the place. If he was half as big a toff as he sounded then this was all pointless. He would take one look at it and head for the hills.

Gord should have asked for his number so he could cancel. He hadn't thought about it. It all seemed inevitable now.

He went to bed at some point and woke up early. His lungs ached as he coughed up the cigarette smoke from the night before. His head was a throbbing fog of grey, and yet Gord couldn't break the habit of getting up early to train. He had always been that way, first to the pitch, running the hardest, talking shite to the ones who turned up five minutes late yet still managed to be better than him. He had hated that, so he got up earlier, trained harder.

The doc said the joint in his knee was weakened from over work. That maybe it only tore because it had already been pushed to the exhaustion point.

Gord got out of bed anyway, even if he didn't need to compete for his place anymore. He lit a cigarette as he stumbled around for his joggers. He pulled them on and tugged at the frayed drawstring. He was losing weight now he wasn't training anymore. He stubbed the cigarette out into an old tuna can so he could pull his jumper on.

His back was stiff as he leaned against the wall, tying the laces on his trainers tight. He didn't bother to lock the door when he went out. He had spent his pay packet and was now stuck waiting for the next one. It would be a bigger annoyance to carry keys than to have a tramp possibly wander about his sparse flat.

Gord stretched in front of his building, pulling in lungfuls of icy October air. Damp and leaves, that was what the wind smelt like that morning. It was invigorating after a muggy summer. He started jogging.

His knee immediately protested as his foot hit the pavement. He slowed his pace and the grinding ache eased. Two blocks later the fire crept back up the ligaments and he was forced to slow again.

A granny with a pushcart kept pace with him for a block. He turned down a back lane just to get away from her. He stuck to those narrow paths so no one could see him struggle.

His pace slowed as he recognized one of the back gardens in the tightly packed row houses. The Kumars. Gord paused for a moment and before he could think better of it he hopped the low back gate.

He knew which window was Anjali's, her fuschia sari hung over the curtain rod and he could see a glimpse pf a Queen poster on one wall.

He plucked up a couple pebbles and chucked them at the glass.

It took three pebbles before she opened the window and stuck her head out. Her hair was a frizzy curtain around her head and her white t-shirt must have once belonged to one of her brothers it was so massive on her.

"Mad King George, get out of my back garden," she hissed down at him. Gord smiled and walked closer.

"I haven't got anything in. Give me a cuppa."

Anjali glared for a long moment at him with dark circled eyes, before she groaned and closed the window.

Gord hovered near the back door, feeling his sweat cool and his knee throb. He probably looked and smelled a fright. That was the nice thing about Anjali, she would be rude whether he was clean or dirty.

The deadbolt creaked and Anjali tugged the door open so fast the fog-fat wood groaned.

"What do you do with the money we give you, that you never have food?"

"You could pay me more and I could take you out on a date," Gord grinned at her and Anjali looked like she wanted to either laugh or smack him.

A voice called in Hindi from inside the house, Anjali's mother. Anjali glanced over her shoulder into the tight hallway full of potted plants.

"What did she say?"

"She asked if it was the white boy with the bum leg from Jun's club."

"Is that what she calls me?"

Anjali rolled her eyes and yelled back over her shoulder in Hindi. Then she paused and looked at Gord for a fleeting second before adding in English, "and he's hungry."

There was a second delay before Mrs. Kumar shouted back. Anjali hung her head and sighed before stepping to the side.

"She says come in," Anjali sighed. She punched him in the shoulder as he passed. "Leave your trainers outside, they stink."

Gord kicked his greying shoes over the threshold. Anjali made a disgusted sound as she saw the hole in his sock.

"You should see my Y-fronts" Gord teased as he walked towards the kitchen.

"Our guests won't know if it is you or goat in the hariyali," she threatened shoving him between the shoulder blades.

Gird gave Mrs. Kumar a big smile, as the small hall spit him out into the kitchen. There were even more plants in the main living area hanging from woven baskets in the windows.

"Anjali, make tea," her mother hissed at her youngest daughter as she bobbed her head at Gord. "He is your brother's friend."

Anjali filled the yellowed kettle as her mother heated oil in a large black pan. Mr. Kumar wasn't home, Gord could tell by the single stack of dishes next to the sink. He rose early to go to his club to watch cricket matches being played back in his home country.

Mrs. Kumar took out small glass bowls from the fridge that was same brown as milky tea and plopped spoon fulls of leftovers in to a bowl. On top of that she poured thick ribbons of batter before mixing with a fork. The mixture sizzled and popped as it hit the pan.

Anjali lifted the lid on an old tea pot and tossed in three tea bags. She poured the hot water on top. She leant on the counter with her hands holding her up, like a mother bird over a nest. One foot kicked over the other as she swayed slightly on her toes. Gord stole a look at her long brown legs.

He could see the hem of shorts peaking from her night shirt as she reached up for mugs.

She glared as she put the mug down in front of him.

"What happened to your old roommate?"

Gord felt his mouth go slack for a moment as he tried to connect her words and her actions. Neville, his brain sluggishly replied, she was asking about Neville. Gord picked up the tea that glinted red in the white mug.

Mrs. Kumar put a plate in front of him, fluffy rice pancakes with a big dollop of caramel coloured chutney on the top. Gord took a scalding swig of tea.

"He moved in with his bird," he answered, cutting into his breakfast.

"Who has a bird?" Jun asked coming into the kitchen stretching. His black hair was a mess of curls around his head. "And why is Gordo here?"

"Neville," Gord answered twisting to look at his mate. "I came for breakfast, I haven't got anything in."

"He's at the restaurant more than you," Anjali shot back at her brother. "You should give him some of your allowance so he stops bothering us."

Mrs. Kumar was feigning deaf as she turned to start breakfast for her son. Jun blinked at his sister for a moment.

"I can see your legs," he said at last. His voice low and pointed. Anjali looked down.

"Of course you can, I don't hang them up at night."

"If I can see them, Gord can see them."

Anjali snorted dismissively and rolled her eyes. Mrs. Kumar turned and glanced down as if it just occurred to her that her daughter was visible to everyone in the room.

"Anjali," she said softly, almost pleading. "Go change while your brother's friend is over."

Anjali groaned and stomped from the room, Gord was shovelling food into his face as an excuse to keep his eyes down.

Jun plopped himself next to Gord and bumped his shoulder. "Are you coming to watch the match on Saturday?"

"Ya, I was thinking on it."

"We're going out after," Jun hinted.

"I have work Saturdays."

"Don't worry about that," Jun grinned as his mother put a large rice pancake down in front of him.

Anjali didn't return while he was in the house. Jun had talked shop about the club and practice drills. Gord had wrestled the dishes from Mrs. Kumar and washed them while Jun talked. It was better to keep his hands busy or he would lose his temper. It wasn't Jun's fault, but it was hard not to hate him when he could still play football, and lived in a warm house with an ever-present family, good food to eat and a telly to watch games on if he couldn't afford a pint at the pub.

Gord walked back to the flat, his stomach too full to jog. His hands were tucked into his jumper pockets. It was colder walking and Gord couldn't shake the feeling someone was watching him.

He lit a cigarette as he walked and used the excuse of lighting it, huddled away from the wind to glance up and down the street. He couldn't see anyone suspicious. It was just his brain playing tricks.

* * *

It was almost nine-thirty and Gord was beginning to convince himself that he had been stood up by the caller. He was relieved, even as rent loomed and he knew Anjali wouldn't let him in for breakfast two days in a row. No one else had called about the flat, but the more he waited the more he was certain he would be rejected by this mystery man.

The restaurant was slowing down, the dishes and cutlery in his pit dwindling and large kitchen pans began to make their way back. A sure sign the kitchen had almost given up on the night.

"Someone's asking for you," Desi stuck his head over the ceramic partition.

He was part of the Kumar family, but of a distant enough relation that Anjali could direct her wrath at him more effectively than at her brothers. Gord never heard Anjali call him Desi, and he wondered if perhaps it was a self proclaimed moniker. Desi's hair was spiked up at the front and too long to not fall into his eyes. A layer of bleach had turned it satsuma orange.

Gord wiped his hands on his pinny and moved to the swinging door of the kitchen. He peered through the fish-eyed glass and saw a sliver of a man sitting alone at a table.

The man held his hand up gracefully when Anjali offered him a menu, but he accepted a glass of water. His skin was clear and pale. His cheek bones were so high and his eyes so sunken that he looked nothing like a real person. He looked like he had stepped out of a Warrior magazine.

Gord pulled at the collar of his pinny and stepped away from the door as Anjali came through. The snaps popping open blended with the creaking of the door hinges.

"You are going to show him the flat?" Anjali asked, her eyes dipping down to his greying t shirt, the logo long flaked off. It stuck to him in places where the sweat and humidity were trapped.

"That's the plan," Gord answered doffing off his hat and shaking his hand through his blonde hair. He bundled the pinny and the hat and tossed them towards the wash bin. Anjali raised her eyebrow. He could tell she was swallowing a comment. Whether it was about the laundry, his appearance or the bloke in the dining room Gord couldn't guess.

He shook his hands quick and bounced on his toes twice before darting through the door. He couldn't handle her assessment at the moment.

Gord crossed the small dining room in long strides. The stranger was looking around serenely, the glass poised just in front of his lips. His eyes moved constantly, but with ease, as if he was drawing in every detail.

Had he never been in a place like the Ivory Palace? With its gaudy gold and orange paint flaking into a mud-spattered mauve carpet. Even though Gord knew the Kumars kept the place spotless, the facade was obvious when the Banbury weather weeped against the front window.

Gord pulled out the chair across from the man and sat down.

"Evening," Gord bobbed his head not sure how to start.

The stranger set the glass down slowly enough it made no sound on the glass covered table cloth.

"Good evening," the stranger responded. His lips twitched and thinned in a hesitant smile. Gord kept his hands tucked in his pocket.

"You asked about the flat?"

"I did," the stranger responded, the twitching of his mouth showed off the spark in his eyes. Gord thought he might be laughing at him. He straightened, smoothing the front of his shirt. "But maybe the first question should be, who are you? And who am I?"

"This is me," Gord pulled his hands out of his pockets and opened his arms inviting judgement. "I thought you knew everything from the ad."

"You are a busboy with a recent knee injury. I was hoping for a name."

Gord's mouth fell open. "How did you know about the knee?"

"I am a medical student."

"That isn't a name."

"I was answering your question. You didn't ask for my name."

Gord bit his cheek, "are you always this hard to talk to?"

"I have been told I improve on acquaintance. An acquired taste."

If he was in medical school that meant he had money. Gord needed money. It also meant he was unlikely to up and leave with some tart in a mini dress. Gord wiped a clammy hand on his pants and reached across the table.

"They call me Gord."

The stranger's grip was surprisingly strong.

"Hannibal Lecter."


End file.
